


10, Downing Street

by ColdeLinke



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdeLinke/pseuds/ColdeLinke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prime Minister's son, Seth Blackwell, is murdered in his sleep. Sherlock Holmes is asked to investigate. </p><p> </p><p>(happens at the very beginning of 2x3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	10, Downing Street

The governess glanced at her watch again and frowned. It was not often that her employer's son was not awake on time. She ordered the cook to prepare some breakfast that he could eat on the way to school, left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. She arrived in the hall, climbed the other stairs and reached the upper floor. There, she took the first corridor on the right, walked to the end of it, opened a door which lead her to a lounge. She knocked on the half-hidden door on the side. She waited a whole minute then did it again. Silence welcomed her once more, so she entered the bedroom and walked until she faced the window to open the curtains. She turned back to the bed, but froze, eyes wide open. A few seconds later, a deafening cry echoed through the whole house.

 

*

 

It didn't seem like it was going to be a good day for Sherlock - nor for John, for that matter. Sherlock was sulking on the sofa, his last experiment already over and he wanted to receive a call from DI Lestrade.  
"You could try to solve the cold cases Lestrade sent you, you know," John said in exasperation as he put Sherlock's cup of tea on the table before him.  
"Dull," Sherlock sighed.  
"You haven't even opened the files yet!"  
"Dull", he repeated louder and turned around so that his back was facing John.  
"Everything I offer you is dull anyway, isn't it?" John muttered, more to himself than to his friend, feeling slightly childlish as he did so.  
"I need something new, something exciting! I need -" he stopped talking suddenly and John looked up from his book.  
"Sherlock?"  
He watched as Sherlock smirked while looking at the door. He was sitting straighter and appeared to be reading the newspaper. John found it more odd than finding blood on the carpet when he came home after doing the groceries, and that was saying something.  
"Sherlock?" he asked again, frowning.  
Someone was coming up the stairs, and Sherlock had obviously figured out who it was. John turned around so that he was facing the door just as Lestrade came in.  
"Sherlock," he said, breathless.  
"Hm, important victim. Famous person?" "It's the Prime Minister's son!"  
John gasped, but Sherlock kept looking at Lestrade emotionlessly.  
"He heard about you and wants you personally on the case."  
"Where did he die?"  
"10, Downing Street, in his bedroom. You'll have to come with us, the place is crowded with paparazzis and journalists, you'll never be able to make it in a regular cab."  
Sherlock sighed but consented to it. He put his coat and scarf on while John rolled his eyes at him. "Drop the smile, there'll be cameras."

 

*

 

The street was full of journalists, curious people and men in suits. John and Sherlock were assaulted with questions and flashes as they came out of the police car and entered the building. Once they were safely inside, the commotion was scattered. The men in suits were still numerous yet very silent - bodyguards, John guessed. Sherlock was already looking around, examining everything that could reveal something to him that was relevant to the case. They followed Lestrade who lead them to the crime scene.  
On their right was the bed drenched in blood, the victim's throat cut open, his eyes opened in fear, his pajamas rumpled and stained with blood. John approached the body as did Sherlock. He observed the body and said "Here are marks of strangulation around the neck, but the cause of death is clearly the slit throat."  
Lestrade nodded and said that the medical examiner had already noted that. John blushed slightly and took a step back from the body, letting Sherlock get closer and walk around the bed. He watched as the consulting detective only glanced at the body before going to the window. He touched the curtains and opened the window, watching the view only to nod to himself before closing it once again. He went through the stuff on the desk right next to it, dismissing most of it before stopping his large gestures to examine a notebook. He flipped through it and put it back. He then proceeded to open the closet and unfolded the clothes. Lestrade made a noise of protest from the back of his throat and Sherlock dropped them with a sigh before going towards them.  
"Well?" Lestrade asked with impatience, but John could tell that Sherlock did not want to go through his deductions as he usually did, his eyes still looking around the room as if he was considering something.  
"He obviously knew his murderer," was all Sherlock muttered. "What makes you say that?" John inquired, surprise in his voice.  
"He died with his eyes open so he was awake but he didn't scream and he didn't fight that much considering - well," he smirked as he said the last word, gesturing towards the bed.  
John scowled but Sherlock either didn't see or didn't care because the smirk did not leave his face. Lestrade did not pay attention to any of them, answering a phone call a step away.  
￼￼"We need to see the Prime Minister," Sherlock added and that made Lestrade end his call to ask, "Why, you don't think he's the killer, do you?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted, as John looked at him with wonder.  
"No, of course not. He's not stupid enough to kill his own son in this house. No, I need information on his son's life, and who better to give that to me than his father?"  
He left the room without waiting for Lestrade's answer, and John whispered an apology with a smile before following his flatmate down the stairs.

 

*

 

They reached a room empty if not for the Prime Minister and Lestrade's boss. The silence was thunderous and even John could guess what the Prime Minister was thinking. Mr Blackwell seemed ten years older than on the numerous pictures on the different magazines, even on the pictures John had seen in the house standing still on a table or on a mantelpiece. The wrinkles on his face stood out more than usual, but maybe that was because he had only just learned of his only son's death. He had red, puffy eyes and his lips were tightly shut, the corner of his mouth dropping as if to meet his chin.  
"Oh, Mr Holmes I presume?" Mr Blackwell asked distantly. His voice was empty of emotion.  
"And Dr Watson," John answered, introducing himself, knowing that Sherlock would reply with something upsetting.  
"I'd like to ask you a few questions about your son," Sherlock said, eyes focused on anything but the man. John would have thought it was because he felt embarassed in front of a mourning father had it not been Sherlock.  
"Oh, yes, of course, of course, anything you need."  
The older man sat down and took a deep breath before nodding to Sherlock.  
"I don't suppose you know of anyone who might want to hurt him?"  
"I can't think of anyone, no. He is - was a really sweet kid. I don't -" he broke off, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and went on, "I don't think anyone was mad enough to kill him."  
"Do you know where he went on Tuesdays and Fridays at 6:30?"  
John frowned at Sherlock, not understanding what he was talking about, and from the looks of it, Mr Blackwell didn't either.  
"Hm, thought so," Sherlock muttered. "Could you give us a list of Seth's closest friends?"  
"Hm, sure."  
"We'd better be off then," Sherlock said, nodding at John as he started walking towards the exit. "Is that it?" The Prime Minister asked with confusion.￼￼  
"Oh yes, I've got everything I need!"  
Sherlock was smiling and Mr Blackwell looked offended but didn't have time to say something as Sherlock disappeared.  
"Hm, sorry," John said and vanished after him, irritation running through his veins.

 

*

 

Lestrade was talking with the victim's best friend, Liam Porter, as John and Sherlock observed them from the corner of the room, their breaths the only sound coming from them. John examined Sherlock with narrow eyes, he did not appear to listen to the conversation as carefully as he should, so John made sure to pay attention in case Sherlock ever asked him details, although he probably wouldn't. Sherlock didn't need to hear what people said when he could read the words on their faces, in their expressions, in the way they talked and moved.  
"What would you say about Seth and his life at home?"  
"He is - well, was - very sad about not seeing his father as much as he wanted to. The death of his mother broke his heart and often when people talk about their mothers, he'd just - got lost in his memories I guess. You know, looking out of the window, a pensive look on his face."  
"And how was he at school?"  
"Oh, he was brilliant," the young man answered in a pitiful tone. He repeatedly wrinkled his nose as though trying to hold back tears, but never once did John see one escape, so he assumed Liam was doing a good job of containing his grief - for now, at least. "He had excellent grades in every subject, although he never really needed to work. He didn't have many friends, to be honest there was only me. He wasn't very trustful, actually. I never did learn why..." He winced, and meeting the detective's interrogative gaze, he explained. "Most people found him arrogant, which he wasn't, something you could tell when you knew him. Others were just jealous, just like that stupid Morgan who insulted him every time he met him in the corridor."  
"Morgan who?"  
"Morgan Campbell," Lestrade scribbled the name down as he glanced at Sherlock who only raised an eyebrow at him.  
"What was he doing outside of school, any activity?" Sherlock suddenly asked and Liam startled at his intervention, only relaxing once Lestrade told him who Sherlock was.  
"N - no, he didn't go out much. His piano lessons were at his place and other than him coming to mine a few nights during the week, I don't think he went anywhere."  
Lestrade waited a few seconds, probably expecting Sherlock to go on, but the latter only gazed elsewhere in silence, so the grey-haired man continued his interrogation.  
"Any idea who might have killed him?" Liam pondered but he shook his head only seconds later.  
￼"As I'm sure you understand, I need to ask you where you were last night, at midnight and one o'clock?"  
"Oh," Liam frowned in confusion, his mouth opening as if to ask a question before he thought better of it and said, "I went to a friend, Samuel Coleman, from 9pm to a quarter to one, then I came back home to sleep."  
"Now, we both know that's not quite true," Sherlock said, tearing his eyes away from the couple arguing in the corridor, his mouth forming a smirk.  
"What - what do you mean?" Liam uttered, his voice giving away his anxiety.  
"Oh you did go to a friend's alright, Scott or Samson, whatever his name is, but you didn't go back home straight away did you?" Liam gasped but Sherlock did not let him say a word as he went on, "you went to see the girl you're sleeping with, and when I say girl I mean the married woman who has no qualm cheating on her husband as he takes care of their young child. I'm assuming no one knows about it, except for you and your lover (he said the word with disdain as if it was wrong to love someone and to show affection through sex, and perhaps to Sherlock it was, he who had never known love in the same way John had) of course, which is why you lied, because you don't want your parents - or god forbid, her husband - to learn about this little affair." He stopped suddenly, eyes sparkling with hostility.  
"Well, let's not keep wasting our time with him, let's go John," and he left the room as abruptly as he had let the words flow out of his mouth.  
John stormed after him, and although the anger he had previously felt had dissipated, he still wanted to make Sherlock understand that he had the power to know things that people wanted to keep secret, but that didn't mean that he had the right to lay it out in front of everyone as if the person would thank him for his doing that. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had no right to judge a 17-year-old boy whose life had only just began and whose maturity was not yet reached. He wanted to tell Sherlock that just because he was, in the eyes of some, flawless in ways most people aren't, he still didn't have to destroy one's belief that what one was doing was right, even though through Sherlock's standards it was not. But instead he kept his mouth shut, his left eye twitching in poorly hidden frustration. Let it be said, once John and Sherlock found themselves alone in their flat, they will have the conversation John desperately wanted to have.

 

*

 

As soon as they left the building and climbed into the cab, John opened his mouth to start his rant but Sherlock interrupted him before he even began.  
"Not now, John, I'm thinking," he said and left it at that.  
John's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, his annoyance growing more and more by the minute, but he kept his mouth shut. The silence between them was only disturbed by the sound of the engine and the cabbie's tic to make noises with his mouth.  
￼￼John let Sherlock enter their flat first, waiting for him to settle on the sofa before he sat next to him and pried Sherlock's hands away from under his chin.  
"We need to talk about what happened over there," John said, knowing altogether that he didn't have Sherlock's undivided attention.  
"Nothing happened, John," his friend retorted, his face as impassive as ever, but John could feel his fingers twitch slighty in his hands.  
"What about Liam Porter?"  
"What about him?" he let out reluctantly.  
"He's just a kid and you were rather harsh with him!"  
"He's seventeen. And I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that I reprimanded him about infidelity."  
"Me? Why?" the soldier asked, visibly surprised, letting Sherlock's hand go as a result.  
"Infidelity is something that you despise," Sherlock supplied, his voice almost a murmur, as if he didn't want John to know that he had guessed that about him.  
"I do, but that doesn't mean that it's alright for you to lash out so easily at anyone," but instead of scolding him, his voice became soft and he looked at him with such fondness Sherlock had to look away, a feeling of uneasiness eating at his insides.  
"I found something that might give us a lead," he said to change the subject, and although John saw right through him, he let it pass.  
"What is it?"  
But Sherlock didn't have the time to answer him as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered the call and after two long minutes of conversation with Lestrade, he hung up and got up, leaving John alone on the sofa, staring at his hands with longing.  
"John?" Sherlock called, and instantly John was on his feet, his last thoughts already forgotten.

 

*

 

"What have you found?" Sherlock asked when Lestrade came into view.  
"We went to interrogate Morgan Campbell, the victim's so-called enemy, and he didn't make a good job of hiding the knife that killed Seth Blackwell. Found it in the bin in the kitchen, red with blood. He's in the interrogation room right now."  
Sherlock seemed perplexed but followed Lestrade until they reached the door of the room Morgan was in.  
"Let me do the talking Sherlock, yeah?"  
￼Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded, although John already knew that he wouldn't keep his word. Lestrade seemed to think the same thing as John because he sighed and shook his head. The first thing John noticed when he entered the room after Sherlock was the boy's eyes. There were bags under them and they seemed small, as if he hadn't slept well the night before. They were fixed on the table and he didn't look up when Lestrade sat in front of him.  
"We have several testimonies that claim that your interactions with Seth Blackwell were not amicable, do you deny theses affirmations?"  
The young man didn't answer, but it was unclear whether it was because he had not heard or because he did not want to speak. John thought he seemed elsewhere. Lestrade repeated the question and this time, Morgan whispered a "no" that could have easily not been heard, if not for the complete silence that filled the room.  
He was wiggling his fingers, sometimes passing them through his short blond hair, but mostly keeping them on the table, for everyone to see. John's gaze was drawn to them.  
"What is your motive for killing him?" When Morgan failed to answer, Lestrade asked something else. "Have you ever threatened him?"  
"Why would I?" Morgan said suddenly, locking his eyes on Lestrade's, his voice full of determination. "Just because some people," he said the word with such animosity Lestrade's eyes widened almost comically, "tell you that I hated him and that I was jealous of who he was and everything he has ever done, doesn't mean that it's the truth. You claim to fight for justice and yet here you are, wasting your time with me, accusing me of being a murderer while the real one is still out there, pleased with you all who are failing to arrest him. You don't care about what I tell you right now, I could yell that I'm innocent, as I am, and you people will pretend not to hear me. I could scream until my throat was sore, and you would still let me rot in jail. Why does it matter if I reply to your stupid questions, you're not really listening to my answers anyway."  
His words hit Lestrade as if they were a slap, he gasped but quickly recovered, saying that he'd never put an innocent man in jail, much less an adolescent. If he really was innocent, then Lestrade would find the murderer. But as the evidence pointed to Morgan's guilt, he could do nothing but find a new angle to the case for now.  
Sherlock cleared his throat so that Lestrade would look at him, and indicated to the door with a tilt of the head. The three of them left the teenager to his thoughts to talk about him in Lestrade's office.  
"He's obviously being framed. He's not stupid enough to not get rid of the weapon after the murder, and I'm sure his alibi checks out. Oh and let's not forget that he is in love with the victim. Why would he murder him?"  
"In love with the victim? Sherlock, he hated him!" John retorted with large gestures.  
"Oh, don't be dull John. Of course he didn't hate him, it was merely an act to hide his feelings." "So, you think he's telling the truth?" Lestrade asked.  
"I know he is."  
"Well, I can't release him if I don't have any evidence of his innocence," the detective inspector said as he sat in his chair. He rubbed his eyes as if he were tired, John supposed he was.  
￼￼"We'll find some," Sherlock said and left the room without a goodbye, John next to him.  
"Did he seem tired to you?" John asked but Sherlock didn't answer, and instead, merely said, "To frame him, they had to know that Morgan supposedly hated the victim. So, it must be someone who was at their school, or someone very close to Seth."

 

*

 

It took some time for John to fall asleep. In the living room was Sherlock who was thinking aloud, the incessant chatter impossible to ignore. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he tried to stop the rumbling noise his mind was making. His thoughts were all over the place and hearing Sherlock's voice did not help in any way. There were times when John thought about things that he otherwise told himself not to think about. They were the quiet wishes of taking what he already had and making it into something better, something more satisfying, something that would allow him to be aware of what reality was since his dreams would no longer be needed. They were the soothing dreams that he could not control in his sleep, the ones where Sherlock was closer to him than he ever had been - and than he would ever be. John was not an idiot, he knew certain things could never be, Sherlock being his (whatever it was John wanted him to be) would never happen. Still, it felt good sometimes to think about what it would be like. How he would like to be held in the bed, if he would be able to hear Sherlock's heart beat strongly against his ear as his head rested on his chest, where he would kiss him whenever he wanted to. Sleep grabbed hold of him and pulled him tight to its chest, taking with him the wishes that died as soon as they had been born.  
He woke up to Sherlock shaking the bed (knowing not to touch him while he slept), early in the morning, saying something to him in a hurried whisper, although John was still half-asleep so he did not understand the words.  
"John, I know you're awake," the dark-haired man murmured close to his ear. "Sherlock, you okay?" John grumbled, his voice husky from sleep.  
"What? Yes, I'm fine! John, I need your help."  
"You need my what?" John asked, suddenly more awake than he previously was.  
"Don't be an idiot, John, I know you heard me perfectly," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, as he stepped back and left John's bedroom to go downstairs, probably to go back to his - and yes, in a way, it was Sherlock's - sofa.  
"Just doesn't sound like you to say that," John muttered to himself. He looked at his alarm clock and sighed in despair when he saw the time. 4:17 am. Of fucking course the tosser would wake him up so early. He got up slowly and put pants and a jumper on as he yawned. He rubbed at his face and made his way leisurely downstairs.  
He went to put the kettle on but his gaze caught sight of a cup of tea still hot and apparently waiting to be drunk. John could hardly believe that Sherlock, of all people, had prepared it for him. But he accepted the apology silently and joined his flatmate in the room next door. Sherlock was standing in front of the previously naked wall, staring at dozens of papers gathered there, his eyes flicking from one back to another. He obviously hadn't slept at all, John deduced, because Sherlock kept blinking,  
￼sometimes shaking his head as though waking himself up. The soldier knew that Sherlock had not slept the night before Lestrade called. Perhaps it even affected his usually quick thinking.  
"Sherlock, you ought to sleep a bit you know."  
"I need to find something!" Sherlock replied with aggressiveness, clearly frustrated.  
"Your head would be clearer if you took a nap," John said and Sherlock yelled back in frustration, "I don't need a nap!"  
"I just need to find a potential suspect," he added more softly and John sighed, sitting down clumsily in his seat.  
"Give me a file, then," John held his hand out and when he lifted his head from the file to look at Sherlock, he saw the hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.  
After about thirty minutes, between reading and yawning, sometimes almost falling back to sleep only to have Sherlock clearing his throat so as to wake him up, John noticed something that he thought might be relevant to the case.  
"Sherlock?" he called out.  
"Hm?"  
"They found a box under the victim's bed and inside it, there were papers with what could be threats. Obviously there was no signature, but maybe we could ask the best friend, Liam Porter, if he knew anything about it," John pointed out and Sherlock sent a grin in his direction.  
"Brilliant! Let's go to his house then," the taller man said but John shook his head.  
"Sherlock, it's 5am, no one will be awake. No, we'll wait till at least 8 o'clock."  
"I can't wait three hours doing nothing," Sherlock protested.  
"Then it's the perfect time for both of us to take a nap, one that we deserve, I should think," John said, giving a look to Sherlock, who winced but complied.  
"Fine, fine. Maybe it'll make the time flow faster."

 

*

 

The cab dropped them in front of a red-brick house. They walked on the paved stones that let them to the door and Sherlock knocked twice rather urgently. They only waited a few seconds before the door opened, a woman coming out of the house to meet them with a dark gaze and folding her arms on her chest to show her impatience and dislike at being disturbed.  
"Good morning, we'd like to speak with Liam Porter please," John said with a smile while Sherlock was staring at the woman with a raised eyebrow. She frowned at them.  
￼"If you are journalists, you can get the hell away from my property right now," she said furiously and John blushed under her venomous gaze.  
"Oh no, no, we're not journalists, ma'am, we're working with the police," John babbled and the woman was about to answer when a voice interrupted her.  
"It's fine mom, I've got this," a tired-looking teenager appeared and he nodded to his mother to leave him with the two men. After she did, he turned around to the detective and his blogger and asked if there was anything he could help them with.  
"As a matter of fact, yes, there is. Do you recognize the writing?" Sherlock asked as he held out the threatening letters to the person he was facing.  
"Hm, yes actually. I'm pretty sure it's Mary's," Liam answered as his brow knitted and his nose scrunched up just the slightest.  
"Does Mary have a last name?" John asked, taking his notebook out, a pen ready in his hand to write it down.  
"Davenport, Mary Davenport. She - hm - she used to date Seth. I know he ended it about two months ago but I have no idea why," he admitted and after a awkward goodbye, the two older men left to continue their investigation.  
As Sherlock was looking for the suspect's address on his phone, John suggested that they call Lestrade. "It might be best if they pick her up and take her to the station," he added but Sherlock scoffed and glanced at him.  
"You saw what happened with Campbell and Porter, it was useless bringing them to the station. No, it's best if we question her by ourselves, and if she really is the culprit, then we'll call Lestrade, and only then."  
John reluctantly agreed but he knew that once Sherlock had an idea in mind, he could not be moved to change it. Stubborn son of a bitch, John thought angrily, although the anger quickly disappeared to make place for the excitation. Still, he sent the name to Lestrade and asked if he could check her criminal records and others.  
When they arrived in one of the worst neighbourhood of London, Sherlock entered a shabby-looking building, John not far behind him.  
"You sure Seth would know someone from... here? I mean, he didn't seem like a guy who would visit here often, what with who his father is and everything."  
"Yes, John, I am quite certain that the right Mary Davenport lives here," Sherlock rolled his eyes and John pressed his lips together in a fine line, trying to keep a swear word from coming out of his mouth.  
He knocked on the wooden door twice and once again, they only had to wait a few moments before the door parted only to show a messy blond head of hair and a pair of blue eyes.  
"What do you want?" she growled at them and Sherlock smiled at her unduly.  
"We're here about Seth Blackwell," he said and she let out a quiet "don't know him" as she moved to close the door, only to have Sherlock's foot prevent her from doing so.  
￼￼"We have evidence that show us the opposite, Miss Davenport," Sherlock said, his smile fading, his tone turning from charming to threatening.  
"Listen, smartass, I don't have time for your little game! I'm not gonna stand here and be threatened by you, so you better have a good reason for showing up here," she retorted in fury.  
"I think Seth Blackwell's death is a good enough reason, don't you think?"  
"I - what? Seth is - he's dead?" she loosened her grip on the door and let it open as she stared in shock at them.  
"Oh please, you've read the papers, you've seen the news, you know he is," Sherlock rolled his eyes and entered the flat without being offered to. She watched him with wide eyes and followed him. John entered and closed the door after himself, then joined Sherlock as he sat on the sofa.  
"You've sent Mr Blackwell threats, why is that?"  
The girl sat in front of them and sighed. "When Seth broke up with me, I was furious with him. Not because he'd broken up with me, that I could understand, but how he did and worse, why. He went to see me at a friend's party and explained why he had to do it, not far from my friends! They heard everything he said and I felt so humiliated. So I sent a few letters saying that I'd tell everything to his father and that I'd kill him, but I didn't! I swear, whoever killed him, it wasn't me!"  
"Is that why you pretended not to know he was dead?" John asked and she nodded, but then John's attention was caught by the sound of his mobile buzzing in his hands. He heard Sherlock's question "Why did he break up with you?" faintly as he read Lestrade's text.  
'Criminal record for theft in a shop and mugging. She's been in a psychiatric hospital for two years after her mother died when she was twelve. Why do you want to know?'  
He ignored the question for now and did not reply. Instead, he focused on Mary's answer.  
"Said he was dating a boy, didn't tell me his name, but I went through his contacts on his phone and saw lots of texts sent to "M.C", so I'm assuming it's him. He didn't want his father to know, or the press, for that matter. My friends laughed at me and kept telling me I'd turned him gay. You can understand why I wanted to frighten him, can't you?"  
Sherlock nodded but John elbowed him, making Sherlock look at him. He showed him Lestrade's text and received an angry gaze in response.  
"We have everything we need. Thank you for your time, Miss Davenport, we won't bother you any longer."  
"But -" John started to protest, only to be stopped by Sherlock's pressing "John!"  
Once they were out of hearing range, John asked him, "you don't actually think she's innocent, do you?"  
"John, John, John. How many times have I told you that you see but don't observe? She's definitely not our killer. However, she did clear something for us. I was right when I said that Morgan Campbell was in love with the victim, but I didn't get that the victim loved him too."  
"So you were wrong then?" John said with a smirk, glad to be able to mock his friend for once.  
￼￼"I'm not a psychic John, I couldn't possibly know that!" Sherlock riposted, his voice full of irritation. John did not add anything else, but he took pleasure in seeing his best friend irritated.

 

*

 

"There's something I'm missing," Sherlock whispered as he stared at the wall of pictures and papers in front of him.  
"What was that?" John asked from where he sat, glancing up in confusion.  
"There's something I'm missing, John," Sherlock repeated louder. He paced in front of the wall, his hands tied together under his chin, muttering aloud to himself.  
John followed him with his gaze and raised his eyebrow. "And you're expecting me to help?" he asked in disbelief and Sherlock finally locked eyes with him.  
"You helped me earlier," the latter said, narrowing his eyes in confusion.  
"When?"  
"When you found the threats," he answered as he crouched in his seat in front of his friend.  
"Yes but it was a dead end!" John said, shaking his head slightly, frowning.  
"But without you we'd never have learned that Seth was dating Morgan Campbell. And it's better to have a second opinion. I've told you that before, don't you remember?"  
"Hm, no, must've slipped my mind. Anyway, I can't see anything here that seems relevant," he replied, handing the file to Sherlock with a shrug.  
Sherlock groaned and tousled his hair in frustration. John stopped listening to him rambling after the third "I need to remember" mumble. He stretched and yawned before shaking his head to wake himself up and going back to reading the file for the third time.  
Not ten minutes later, John was pleased to be interrupted by a knock on the door. His smile turned to a wince when he noticed who it was. Mycroft Holmes had only just appeared in the doorway but already Sherlock was giving out.  
"Oh, what are you doing here?"  
His brother rolled his eyes at John before turning to Sherlock with a smirk.  
"It may come as a surprise for you, but I hold the Prime Minister in high regard. I am here, to make sure that you, dear brother, are deeply involved in locating the Prime Minister's son's murderer. And to offer my help."  
"I don't need your help, Mycroft! Now, leave, we don't want your sticky scent to infiltrate our walls," Sherlock stated childlishly.  
￼￼Mycroft glared at his brother with an arched eyebrow. He sighed deeply, probably recognizing a lost cause when he saw one, and held out a paper to Sherlock, who ignored him, then to John, who took it after a few seconds of hesitation.  
"If you need any kind of help that is not in D.I Lestrade's capacities, call this number." After being ignored by Sherlock, he said, "And do not not use it just because you want to displease me. I am very concerned about this murder and I wish, just like you, to find the culprit."  
Sherlock snorted and looked away, determined to annoy his relative to the point where he would leave. And leave he did after a few moments of shared looks with Dr Watson.  
The dark-haired man continued to complain about the man who repeatedly ruined his life, while John observed him with a fond smile on his face, until he finished his rant and talked business.  
"I think it's time we determine what P. 18h30 on Blackwell's agenda means."

 

*

 

"What are you doing?" John asked as he saw Sherlock take out his phone and enter a number.  
"Calling Lestrade. I think we're gonna have a busy night," he said to John before turning back to his phone, "Lestrade! We require -" the words got out of earshot when Sherlock walked into his bedroom, leaving John to stare after him in bewilderment.  
Sherlock only joined John in the living room after claiming Lestrade had sent an email to John with the clearance code allowing them to see footage of the CCTV cameras.  
"How are we doing this?"  
"Each of us is going to use his laptop to go through the hundred CCTV cameras," Sherlock explained.  
"And what exactly are we looking for?" John opened his laptop and checked his emails. Thanks to Lestrade, he had access to the footage in two clicks.  
"We will follow Seth Blackwell from 10, Downing Street to wherever he went the week before he died."  
They both started to work, John with Monday and Sherlock with Sunday. It took a while to watch the footage of a whole day since they had to go through different cameras. Mrs Hudson appeared in the middle of it, bothering them a bit to rebuke them about forgetting to eat. She made them sandwiches and left them alone, not without reminding them that she was "not your housekeeper, dears".  
When John started Tuesday and Sherlock Saturday, John breathed out, "why didn't you ask the police to do it?" his eyes stinging after staring too long at a screen.  
"They're incompetents," Sherlock answered in a tone that suggested that it was obvious and that John shouldn't even have to ask that.  
￼￼"Right," John said tiredly, "D'you want a cuppa? I'm gonna boil some water," he added, speaking in whispers and he went into the kitchen without waiting for Sherlock's answer.  
He came back two minutes later, carrying two cups of tea that he put on the table next to their respective laptops. Sherlock, whose eyes did not leave the screen, still nodded his thanks. If John had paid attention, he would have noticed Sherlock's surprised expression.  
They kept doing it until John called out Sherlock's name.  
"Hmm?" was the detective's only answer.  
"I think I found what you were looking for," he said, pointing at the screen.  
Sherlock stood up and went behind the blond man, looking over his head.  
"Oh... OH! That's brilliant! John, you're amazing, this is incredible!"  
"Alright, alright, calm down," John ordered although he couldn't stop grinning at the sight of an excited Sherlock.  
On the screen, Seth had closed the door of the building halfway, next to which there was a golden sign. There was an inscription on it that said "A. Brown. Psychiatrist." which is what excited Sherlock so much.  
"Where is it?" the latter asked with jubilation. "Ruby Street."  
"Well, let's go then!" He put his coat on and wrapped his scarf around his neck. For once, John was ahead of him and was already walking down the stairs.  
When they arrived at the place, Sherlock threw a look at John over his shoulder before holding up Lestrade's police ID to the secretary.  
"We need to see Mr Brown immediately," Sherlock said with a tone that implied that he would not accept a refusal.  
"I'm afraid Mr Brown is not -" she started to say but Sherlock ignored her and opened the door on the left with a bang, the protests of the secretary dying out when a man walked out of the room, wearing a soft smile on his face; his body language telling John that he was calm.  
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" the man asked, turning his gaze from Sherlock to John in a swift motion as though trying to commit them to memory. He had a scar that went from his forehead to his cheek, damaging his left eye. It made him look quite scary, John thought.  
"We're here to talk about Seth Blackwell," Sherlock stated, John silent at his side.  
"As I am sure you are aware, I cannot speak about my clients," was all Mr Brown said.  
"And I'm sure that you wouldn't like to receive a call from the Prime Minister telling you to do as you are asked," John declared, glaring at the man as he did so.  
M. Brown laughed, the sound resonating in the room.  
￼￼"Very well, then. Please, come in," he invited them into his office, closing the door behind him.  
"What do you wish to ask?"  
The smile on his face was getting on John's nerves. He probably had nothing to do with the murder itself, but it'd be good to collect information on Seth's life from a different point of view. Still, John thought he looked like someone had just given him pleasant news, something like a birth or a wedding, and yet they were talking about a teenager whose death was premature. The more John thought about it, the more he felt pained for Seth. He hadn't had an easy life, however short it was. His mother had died when he was thirteen and at the same time his father had said: "Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a government and I have accepted." It must have been hard to have such a drastic change in his life. Seth had never appeared really happy in the official pictures, now that John thought about it.  
"Mr Brown, do you -"  
"Oh please, call me Alfie."  
"Right, hm. Do - Do you know of anything that might have caused his murder?" John asked, taking the lead, Sherlock's eyes wandering around the room but still keeping an eye on them.  
"Hm, no, no I can't say that I do. Dreadful business, isn't it? Poor boy, he had such a promising future," Mr Brown said, his lips twitching in discomfort. John narrowed his eyes at him, the words sounding false in his ears.  
"Quite so. What did you speak about in your sessions?"  
"We talked mostly about his school, how life at home was, he did mention missing the chance to see his father more often. He told me about his friends, Liam and Gwen, Liam's sister. Nothing unusual, as you can see," his smile widened, showing his crooked teeth.  
"Right," John cleared his throat and nodded to Sherlock, who nodded back. "We'll be heading out then," he added to the psychiatrist.  
"Thank you for your answers, Mr Bro - I mean, Alfie," he shook his hand and received another smile. "If you have any more questions, I'll make myself available to you."  
They left the office in silence, but once they stepped out of the building, Sherlock said to John, "you felt threatened by him."  
"What? No I didn't!" John protested.  
"Yes you did," Sherlock smiled, "you kept glaring at him and looked for exit doors and windows before fully entering the room. I don't blame you, of course, he was looking rather suspiscious."  
"You think he might be the killer?" They walked down the street, until a cab pulled over and took them in. After Sherlock gave the address to the driver, he replied.  
"I know he was lying about something, now we just need to figure out what." "And how are we going to do that?"  
￼￼"That, John, is something that you are not going to like. I'm afraid we might not have a chance to sleep anytime soon," John answered with a groan and Sherlock merely smiled in contentment.

 

*

 

Luckily for them, Mr Brown recorded his sessions with all of his clients, and even though the ones with Seth Blackwell were a little harder to find, they ended up on Sherlock's desk. There were about thirty tapes of an hour each. They started at the beginning, sitting down on the sofa next to each other, the laptop posed on the coffee table in front of them. John felt his eyelids drop every few seconds but he fought against it, until he found that he couldn't, and he drifted off into sleep, wrapped in warmth and feeling safe.  
When he woke up, the sun had just risen. He felt refreshed, as if he had slept for days. He looked around but failed to see Sherlock. He had barely gotten up from the sofa, his back hurting from the uncomfortability of the piece of furniture, when Sherlock appeared, wet hair dripping on his shoulders, his eyes shining with excitement.  
"Sherlock?" John called out, wanting to know what was getting his friend so excited.  
"I know what happened! I mean, obivously I had ideas from the beginning but now I have so many details! This is amazing, John, probably the most interesting murder I've seen in weeks!"  
He smiled at John and he couldn't help but grin in return, although he rolled his eyes as he watched the detective as he rubbed the palms of his hands together.  
"Will you tell me, then?" John asked after he realised that Sherlock would not continue with an explanation.  
"Oh, I've already called Lestrade. We're meeting him and the Prime Minister at New Scotland Yard so that I can explain everything." John said nothing, although his eyes glanced down at himself.  
"Hm Sherlock?" he said, but Sherlock didn't hear him, too wrapped up in his words.  
"Sherlock!" he said louder and when the man turned wide eyes at him, he asked, "Do I have time to take a shower?"  
"Oh, yes, of course. I was going to wake you and then prompt you to go to the bathroom."  
"Alright, give me ten minutes, then," and true to his words, John came back from the bathroom after ten minutes. Feeling even better than he had upon waking up, he followed Sherlock in his effervescence.  
The place was crowded with even more police officers than usual. John supposed the Prime Minister's presence did that. They were led to a conference room big enough for twenty people. Instead of twenty, there were only four people. The Prime Minister, of course, stood next to the window, and his bodyguard stood at the back, behind everyone. Lestrade was there too, and sitting next to him was his boss, David Coleman, staring at James Blackwell with admiration. John coughed to hide his snort. The Prime Minister greeted them the instant they entered the room, an honest attempt at a smile on his lips  
￼￼that looked more like a wince. He sat down next to Lestrade and motioned to Sherlock to sit as well. He was ignored, but John took a seat so that he was facing his friend.  
"Well?" Lestrade broke the silence and everyone observed Sherlock as he moved around the room and smiled. Knowing his friend liked to keep the suspense up until the last moment, John shook his head at him in annoyance. He received a smirk in return.  
"Let's begin by saying that Seth was not as innocent as he let everyone think he was. I, of course, did a bit of research on your family history so as to make sure that I had all the data I needed, therefore I knew that Seth's mother, Olivia, had died in a fire three years ago. I noticed in Seth's bedroom that there were no pictures of her so obviously she is neither dead nor in contact with her son."  
"What do you mean, not dead?" James Blackwell interrupted but Sherlock ignored him and continued with his explanation.  
"I didn't understand right away what had happened between the two of them but watching Seth's session with his psychiatrist, Mr Brown, helped me clear that problem. He talked about wishing he'd been enough for his mother and his attempts at stopping resenting his father for being absent most of the time, even before he became Prime Minister. And although it was not mentioned in the sessions, I knew something had happened between the two of them three years before, which lead Olivia Blackwell to fake her own death in a fire, presumably after her son asked her to leave. But we'll go back to that later."  
John's reaction was similar to the others'. They were all staring at Sherlock with eyes wide open and with surprise written all over their faces. He had only just started, but John understood now what Sherlock had meant when he said that it was an interesting case.  
"Someone had tried to frame Campbell, Seth's known enemy, and yet had done a poor job of it. They obviously did not know about his true relationship with your son, or else they would have known not to choose him. In fact, Mary Davenport would probably have been a better suspect, with her criminal record and her time in a psychiatric hospital. Of course, they didn't expect someone like me to be working on the case and assumed it would only be idiots, as they often are, that would be assigned to finding the murderer. They thought they'd get away with it."  
"They?" Lestrade mouthed to John, but the latter only shrugged in response. He didn't know any more than they did. Almost everything Sherlock was saying was new to him, and yet he'd been with Sherlock the whole time.  
"During his last session with Mr Brown, Seth admitted wanting to go to the police to confess to something that had happened years ago. It wasn't hard to connect the dots. When I first saw the crime scene, I had a sense of recognition. I couldn't remember why it looked so familiar until I connected the murder with what had happened when Seth was thirteen."  
John wanted to shoot a disapproving look at Sherlock for being a bit insensitive, but he was hanging onto every word and couldn't spare the time. It wasn't like Sherlock was going to see it anyway, he thought.  
"Three years ago, a man was found with his throat slit and marks of strangulation around the neck. The man hadn't fought back, so he'd known his murderer. His murderer was never found and at the time I didn't pay much attention to it, but now that I know the murderer, I can see, clear as day, what happened that night. Olivia, living with an absent husband and her beloved son, had an affair with Mr McKoyle. It was during Mr Blackwell's ascension in politics, so she had to be careful. If the story got out, the politician would appear, well, weak. But McKoyle wanted to reveal his affair to the press. Olivia heard about it before he had the time to do so, and murdered him in cold blood. Her family was too precious for her to lose it that way, and she probably did not want her failure placarded all over the city, turning her husband's win into a failure as well. However she did not plan for her son to see. He had two choices: to go to the police and confess to what he had seen, destroying his father's works in the process, and losing his mother to a life in jail. Or, and that is the choice he made, to let her go if she promised to never come back. She set her house on fire and planted her DNA so that everyone would believe her to be dead and so that she could live her life somewhere else in peace."  
He paused, watching everyone's reaction as he took time to catch his breath.  
"But for three years, Seth remembered evertyhing he had seen that night. He thought about the man's family and about his own family, the lies that already existed and the images that haunted him. His biggest mistake was to confess to what he wanted to do to his psychiatrist. Not that he was to know that M. Brown was, and still is, Olivia's new lover and was hired to keep an eye on her son. M. Brown must have warned her right after the session and it took her four days to plan the way she was going to silence him."  
A silence greeted him, only interrupted by Lestrade's talking over the phone to someone about arresting the murderers. The Prime Minister was shaking, and he blinked and blinked again to prevent the tears from falling out. John watched Sherlock with wide eyes, impressed as he always was when his friend did something remarkable. He wanted to praise him but wasn't so cruel as to do it in front of the victim's father.

 

*

 

On their way out, they spotted M. Brown being escorted into the Yard, eyes full of fury when directed at them. Sherlock ignored him but John watched him with a smug look on his face. They didn't speak, they were happy to walk in silence.  
They both turned around when they heard their names. The Prime Minister was at the door of the Yard, and he approached them quickly.  
"I wanted to thank you, for what you did. Without you, I'd never know about any of it and Olivia would still be running about, free. Just - thank you."  
He shook Sherlock's hand fervently and then John's. His eyes were red and his hands shaking, but he didn't mention it. He expressed his condolences again and then they left, leaving the poor man standing on shaky legs.  
They decided to walk home, since it wasn't that far away, and John wanted to enjoy the sun instead of taking a cab for once.  
"That was incredible," John finally let out the words that had been burning his tongue. The corner of Sherlock's mouth flickered. John's own lips curved into a small smile.

On John's first night at Baker Street, he thought he'd get used to Sherlock Holmes, but the truth was the man would never cease to amaze him. He felt happier than he had in years, and all because of the man walking beside him.  
Little did he know that his world would shatter only weeks later.

￼


End file.
